


Wave Goodbye to Cares of the Day

by jjbittenbinder



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Young Bruce Wayne, file under: i have a lot of opinions about bruce's childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18071216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjbittenbinder/pseuds/jjbittenbinder
Summary: "The nights following Thomas and Martha’s murder left both young master and butler at a loss, for what would their daily routine become without Bruce’s parents?"A butler turned father and a boy turned orphan struggle to put together a kind of life.





	Wave Goodbye to Cares of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Hushabye Mountain" which Alfred 100% sings to Bruce and I cry

Bruce Wayne had a strict bedtime of 8:15pm. At 8:15, the model trains were put away, bookmarks were placed between the proper pages, the television was turned off, teeth were brushed, slacks and sweater vests were exchanged for pajamas (usually the ones with the cartoon owls on them, or, if those were out of commission, the soft flannel set that Martha got him when he grew out of the last one). 

Alfred found that the young master rarely made a fuss about going to bed. Bedtime and all its proceedings made sense to the small, 10 year old boy, the same small boy who was already charting stars from out the library window with the telescope his father got him and had even genuinely beaten Alfred at chess a few times. 

Bruce often found him when it was only 8:05, sometimes earlier, and politely informed him that he had quite a long day and would like to go to bed early, if he wouldn’t mind. Alfred always obliged him, and usually he would embark on a new chapter of whatever book they had been reading; most recently they had begun Mary Shelley’s  _ Frankenstein _ , after Bruce heavily insisted he was mature enough to hear such a story, and Martha gave her son a tenuous yes. 

The nights following Thomas and Martha’s murder left both young master and butler at a loss, for what would their daily routine become without Bruce’s parents? 

Alfred instinctively brewed a whole pot of coffee the following morning (Thomas took his with two sugars and a hint of cream, and Martha liked hers black), and found himself gaping at the empty table when he turned and saw the vacant seats. The pop of the toaster brought him back to the present, and he felt the little normalcy that was left in the manor pour down the sink along with the now cold coffee. 

Bruce had terrible nightmares the first few nights after the murder, something that would usually have Martha rushing to his bedroom to console him. Martha would hold him for hours, and talk to him and stroke his hair and get him to forget all about whatever had haunted him. She had that easy but firm tone with her words, where one knew she was right but also that she loved her son more than anything. 

Instead of even attempting this, Alfred stood outside his door on the nights when Bruce awoke from a nightmare, hesitating when he heard the boy sobbing inside as he missed his parents so keenly and so desperately. He steeled himself and entered, because he knew that Bruce needed a calm presence, and, even though Alfred knew he could never imitate the limitless grace and poise of Martha Wayne, he still needed  _ someone.  _

And goddamnit if Alfred couldn’t be that someone. 

Their routine stuttered along for weeks. Bruce barely ate, though he still came and sat at his place at the table at each appropriate mealtime throughout the day. Alfred sat beside him, a silent comfort as he tried to convince the boy to eat something, but it was fruitless. Bruce hid himself in the library, or his father’s study, or in his bedroom, under the covers, and he had only a handful of words to say each day. The nightmares got better, although Alfred feared that the trauma of witnessing his parents’ murder hadn’t actually ebbed, but that Bruce was internalizing his pain and hiding everything so deep within himself that even he couldn’t be hurt by it anymore. His worst fear was that Bruce was getting very good at this very quickly. 

Walking through the halls without Thomas’ music playing on the stereo, or Martha brushing by him and smiling, only raising a hand in greeting as she was on the phone with very important people and had to stay focused, had Alfred wandering the manor on occasion. Sometimes, late at night, he would walk to the master bedroom where they used to sleep and open the door, only to find it just the same as they had left it. 

Alfred made it a habit of checking in on Bruce after he went to bed. He was intensely worried that the boy would suddenly need him in the middle of the night, and he wanted to always be available. 

He had brought up a tray with a cup of hot tea and a small plate with two large cookies on it, oven-warmed snickerdoodles, as one would expect. He gently knocked (this was just a courtesy to warn the young boy that he was about to enter, he knew there would be no response), and proceeded into the dark room. He set the tray down on the bedside table, and turned, only to notice the bed disturbingly vacant. 

Panic gripped him, and the tray was quickly forgotten as Alfred searched the room for signs of Bruce. Nothing. 

He tore down the hall to the bathroom and found it empty and dark, not a single thing out of place. Next was the library, to Bruce’s favorite armchair which resided between the history section and the philosophy section, which was also painfully empty. The study, the greenhouse, the kitchen, the dining room, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Alfred was all but dialing the police, fearing the worst -- that Bruce had run away, maybe gotten himself hurt, or, the idea that made Alfred’s heart tight with terror, maybe the people who had killed his parents had returned to finish off the Wayne line entirely-- when Alfred saw a faint light in the window of the master bedroom. 

He hesitated, but only for a moment, and promptly turned on his heel and made a beeline for the master bedroom, not letting himself hope. When he opened the door, the lamp on the bedside table was lit, and Alfred could see a small lump in the center of the exceptionally large bed. He slowly approached the bed, turning on another dim lamp on his way, and saw Bruce’s small head resting on one of the many pillows of the bed, his eyes closed, his arms wrapped around a section of blanket. 

Alfred practically slumped against the wall with relief. Not being able to help himself, he reorganized the sheets and blankets of the bed, making sure Bruce was tucked in and warm, but the arrangement of pillows caught his eye. 

In the spot where Thomas slept, Bruce had tucked a pillow vertically into the edge of the blanket, so it mimicked the silhouette of a person. A quick glance confirmed that he had done the same on his mother’s side of the bed. On Thomas’ pillow was his reading glasses, which he kept on the nightstand so he could read a new chapter of his current book every night, and on Martha’s was her sleeping mask, draped in such a way that it looked as though the pillow were wearing it. And between both of these pillows was Bruce, curled up on his side, clutching the comforter to his chest, and looking so small in the large bed. 

Alfred tore his eyes away from the pillows, as he knew that such a emotion-bearing act would be denied and resented by Bruce if he tried to change it in any way. He knew that this was Bruce’s way of still being with them, of still being able to sleep between them on nights when he had bad dreams (Martha would send him back to his own room after a time, but Thomas always let him sleep between them, he never could resist the pleading look on Bruce’s face, and Alfred suspected he enjoyed protecting his son in such a way).

Once the lamps were off once more, Alfred left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. He retrieved the tray from Bruce’s bedside table and returned the dishes to the kitchen. He then retired to his own bed, feeling utterly heartbroken for the young boy. Here was a boy who lost his parents too soon and with no goodbye, who was mature in his own right but still a child at the end of the day. What could he be thinking about? The world outside that bed is dark and cold and it took his parents from him, and Alfred could hardly get him to eat half of a sandwich. 

The only reassuring thought that came to mind was how strong Bruce was. How independent and brave that boy could be, how he already knew right from wrong and sought to change the world in his own way. Alfred ached for the boy’s happiness, but that was miles away now

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many thoughts on how Bruce was raised???? Mostly they boil down to Bruce was a hilariously formal kid who was given a very loving and healthy childhood except for the part where both of his parents were MURDERED RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM.   
> more baby bruce fics 2k19 i love my small polite son.
> 
> reviews/kudos make me cry please and thank you


End file.
